


Distant Flames

by Hankolijo



Series: The Forest of Aerilon [2]
Category: Aerilon - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Action, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dark Comedy, F/F, Gangs, Gen, Horror, Human Experimentation, Military, Monsters, Organized Crime, Paranormal, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-04-15 02:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hankolijo/pseuds/Hankolijo
Summary: Prior to the events which took place in Jonestown, Maine on March 13th, 2012, the town was already far from a pleasant place to live. But it hadn't always been like that. Many say the decline started in 2004 with numerous budget shortfalls causing the local government to turn to some rather unsavory people in search of investment.* Wayne Bolmey is a street urchin and delivery boy for Inocencio Martinez, one of the Red Crows' top players. After numerous horrible beatings and humiliation, the boy makes a decision which changes his life, along with many others, forever.* Carmine Rodriguez, the highest-ranking female Red Crows officer, was never a huge fan of the gang's leadership. With the gang gaining more and more power in town, she begins to have her doubts about the way the Red Crows operate.* With the end of the Iraq War, special operation's squad labeled "Fox Squad" returns to US soil and soon takes in a new recruit. In face of internal conflicts the team is assigned to what becomes their most dangerous mission yet - dealing with a reported 'terror attack' in the town of Jonestown, Maine.





	1. Confidence

**Author's Note:**

> This story acts as a prequel to The Young Dragon and all following books, giving more background to the characters and their relationships in the first book as well as introducing characters which appear further down the line. The book is written chronologically, starting with 2004 and ending on the day of the Jonestown incident.

**Jonestown, Maine, 23/05/2004**

A short, dark-skinned boy peered out from an alley behind one of the many warehouses that cast they massive shadows over the streets of Jonestown’s industrial district. His piercing gray eyes peered in both directions to make sure nobody was looking directly at him then quickly stepped out onto the sidewalk, holding a small parcel under his arm.

At first glance the boy seemed like nothing special. With his unruly dark hair, torn jeans, ill-fitting sneakers and a faded t-shirt which once had some anti-war slogan on it but now simply read ‘war no’, the boy seemed like another street urchin. Despite the best efforts from the local government and community to help its worst-off citizens, homelessness was starting to become a serious problem in Jonestown; mayor Backston had made a pledge during his last election to construct an orphanage for the poor kids, but budget shortfalls had put the project on hold indefinitely.

Upon closer inspection, they’d see numerous scars and bruises, many of them still fresh, covering the boy’s arms. That day, a decently sized bump could be seen on his forehead. A scab had already formed at the top of it but the boy hardly seemed bothered. If anything, he seemed determined.

The boy looked both ways again before sliding into a different alleyway, this one behind a recycling plant. He walked around an overstuffed garbage bin and stepped in front of the metal back door. The boy huffed out a breath and knocked twice.

A minute passed before the lock clicked. The boy opened the door and stepped inside, a familiar, musty smell entering his sinuses. He was standing in a dimly lit hallway. Behind a double door at the very end of it he could make out the sounds made by massive amounts of heavy machinery. On either side of the hallway several doors lead into offices, each bearing a small plaque with a surname on it. Stevens. Gonzalez. Roberto. Clark. Martinez. Charles.

Martinez’ door was different. Instead of a regular wooden door, his was made of iron with an image of a crow etched into it. Just a couple of months ago, the crow had been tinted red, but it seemed that the color hadn’t stuck.

The boy hesitated momentarily before placing his hand on the door handle. He had to put his entire weight onto the door to open it.

The office was furnished as lavishly as always. Framed pictures of Martinez and his comrades could be seen on every wall. Many of them were of him in a military uniform, though the boy could never make out the emblem on his shoulder, nor could he recognize the flag he spotted in the back of a few of those photos. The men in the photos always seemed to be serious, many of them bearing a thousand-yard stare. Martinez was always smiling.

The man himself was sitting in an padded chair with high armrests, his hands clasped together. He had a smirk on his face but his olive-green eyes were gazing at the boy with clear discontent.

“You’re late again,” the man said, his gaze unmoving. Martinez had a rather heavy accent, but the boy didn’t know enough to place it. He just sounded foreign.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. He had literally been a minute late. “The door…”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about the door. I have _never_ given a fuck about the door. You’re here when I tell you to be here. Now give me the fucking package.”

The boy took a hold of the parcel in both hands, looking down momentarily.

“What, you got water in your fucking ears? Give me the package!”

At that point the boy made up his mind. He stepped closer and extended the package in one hand. As the man grabbed for it, he quickly pulled a small pocket knife from the back of his pants, having tucked it under his shirt. Martinez’s expression rapidly shifted as the blade embedded in his hand. He screamed and reeled back, pulling the boy along with him. The child slammed the package into the man’s face, tearing the thin paper wrapper and puffing out a cloud of white dust which immediately got into the man’s eyes.

The boy couldn’t get the knife out in time. The man blindly swung his fist and struck him in the face, knocking out a tooth. Martinez fell out from his chair while the boy dropped back behind the desk. He had just made a mistake, sure, but he knew he had little choice left at this point. His only other option would have been running away without confronting Martinez beforehand.

And there surely wouldn’t have been much fun in that.

He scrambled for the door while Martinez was still caressing his bloodied hand and burning eyes. This was the part of the plan that the boy hadn’t accounted for.

He had never opened the door from this side before.

He grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. He could feel the metal slab slowly start moving. Just a little more and he could squeeze through…

Just like that, the door slammed shut as a shadow was cast over the child’s form. A drop of blood fell on his shoulder. He could barely react before the air was knocked out from his lungs by a sharp kick to his stomach.

“You God damn piece of shit!” Martinez roared out before slamming his knee into the boy’s stomach again. 

“You! Don’t! Fuck! With! Me!” He said in between kicks. The boy had fallen to the ground now, covering his head with his hands, but Martinez wasn’t aiming for the head. He struck him repeatedly in the chest until he was certain that he had shattered a rib.

He then looked down at his blood-soaked hand and scoffed. “If you have intent to kill someone, finish the damn job.”

 

Carmine Rodriguez dragged the boy out into the alleyway with the help of one of the higher-ranking officers in the crows. She had never learned his name and just called him ‘Sideburns’.

Night had already fallen. Martinez had decided to leave disposing of the kid up until then, as the last thing they needed was the authorities finding out about their little business venture. If everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t have to worry about said authorities for much longer.

“Kid’s still breathing,” Carmine muttered as they carried him towards the car parked in front of the building.

“This shit isn’t right. He’s just a kid,” Sideburns spoke.

Carimne sighed. “Hey, if Martinez thought…”

“Fuck Martinez!” Sideburns grunted out and stopped in front of the car. “He thinks the kid already fucked off to hell, doesn’t he?”

Carmine shrugged, making the boy’s body shake slightly. “No clue what that bastard’s _ever_ thinking, Sideburns. Are you going somewhere with this?”

Sideburns paused as he unlocked the door and the two of them shoved the kid into the back seat. His breathing was uneven. Without medical attention, he would probably die from his injuries in a couple of hours at most.

After shutting the door, Sideburns turned towards Carmine. “I’ll deal with him. Go tell Martinez we already got rid of him.”

Carmine arched a brow. “Where are you going to take him?”

Sideburns opened the driver side door and got inside the car. “The less folks know about somethin’, the less I gotta worry about them knowing is what I say.”

 

**Jonestown, Maine, 17/07/2005**

Wayne had no idea how he had survived that day.

He had woken up on a mattress in the back of a gun store. He knew it was a gun store for the simple reason that he woke up staring down the end of a barrel.

His scream had apparently brought the attention of the store owner. The shaggy-looking man had introduced himself as Liam ‘Wildman’ Boyle. He refused to explain how he had gotten there, but he had made one thing clear – Wayne owed him big time.

A such, they had made a deal. Wayne spent half a month recuperating, but he had already started helping Wildman out – keeping inventory, organizing the shelves in the back room, watching the store when Wildman himself wasn’t present. Once his ribs had fully healed, he started working for him properly.

After a year had passed, Wayne was out on the streets again, but with one important difference. He had someplace he could come back to. He still worked for Wildman, but he had also found himself a small apartment in a building surrounded by rundown factories.

The industrial district was falling apart; the town’s budget seemed to only be getting worse and worse and many of the town’s inhabitants were already leaving. The population was now mostly sustained by people moving to Jonestown in hopes of escaping law enforcement. With the course the town was taking, in a couple of years the town would probably be destroyed by the local government’s hubris.

Wayne cracked open the window in hopes of getting some fresh air, but the room was instead filled by the smell of rot. The boy cringed and pinched his nose as he peered out onto the street below. A massive trash heap had formed near the front entrance. It had been dumped there overnight – he had no clue if it had been done by one of the residents or maybe one of the factory owners, but it reeked like something had died in those bags. Knowing what Jonestown had become that was always a possibility.

It was Wayne’s day off today but that really didn’t mean much – not like he had anywhere to go. He had erred on the side of caution ever since he had almost died at the hands of Martinez. If that man found out he was still alive he’d certainly make sure to ‘finish the job’ as he himself had said.

Every day was the same. He got up at five, cleaned himself and his humble quarters as best as he could, walked to work while the town was still silent, worked his shift and hurried back home. He never spoke to anyone on his way to or from work. He never made eye contact. He never stood out. He never got into trouble.

He hated it all.

The reason he had confronted and attacked Martinez was exactly because he didn’t want to live like this. He didn’t want to be stuck in his own shit and he didn’t want Jonestown to come crashing down on itself.

Back when his father was still alive they lived not too far from the suburbs to the South. He only had vague memories of that time, but he remembered some details of it. Running around the yard with his cousins. Playing with his dog: he was either named ‘Rex’ or ‘Rick’, he could never remember, but he did remember that it had been one of those large, golden dogs. A golden retriever, was it?

And he remembered going to school. Hell, he remembered being excited to do it every morning. Wayne was always quick on his feet. He liked to think he was even pretty damn smart. Yet when he tried to recall any of his friends at school he would only draw blanks. Some kid that liked to collect bugs. A girl with pig tails. A boy who always brought a little plastic race car to school each day, and every time it was a different car. But no names.

Wayne grumbled something about trash men and was about to shut the window when he heard a scream from somewhere below. No, not really a scream – it felt more fitting to call it a roar or a battle cry of sorts. Wayne stopped with his hand on the side of the window and listened in more carefully. He could hear a fight going on somewhere on the streets, likely in the alley to the right side of the building.

The correct choice would probably have been to shut the window and forget he heard anything. To just stay out of it. He still had to be careful, after all.

Wayne stood there for almost a minute. He then slammed the window shut, causing the glass panels to shake in their frames.

After another second of consideration, he sprinted towards his door, grabbing a bat from the corner of the room along the way.

Wayne may have been smart, but he was always known to make poor choices, after all.


	2. Spirit

**Episode 2: Spirit**

Richard Wick had bitten off more than he could chew.

Ever since his old man passed away he had survived by pickpocketing passersby, stealing the occasional knickknack from a windowsill left carelessly open, rummaging through the waste left by the factories for anything he could sell… It was hardly a great way to live, but he survived. That was the important part.

Problems usually arose when he got caught. Escaping the authorities wasn’t much of a challenge, though. In Jonestown, a cop might accept a small donation in exchange for silence, or simply let you go since there wasn’t much harm in one kid stealing twenty bucks or so.

The Red Crows tended to be less forgiving. Especially when you got caught with one of their wallets in your pocket.

Wick had tried to defend himself, but against three grown men the 13-year-old really couldn’t do much of anything. He screamed out as he tried to punch one of them in the stomach, but his arm was caught and twisted to the side. He groaned and was slammed back as his assailant’s fist slammed into the side of his face.

As Richard fell to the ground, the attacker stepped forward, but one of the men along with him placed a hand on his shoulder. The man stopping him was at least a foot shorter but was noticeably more muscular than the more violent man. With a full beard and a dirtied up t-shirt to contrast the other man’s clean, button-up shirt, he also seemed more mature in a sense.

“Hey, Rafael, take it easy. It’s just a dumb kid,” the man said with a faint Southern accent. A corner of Richard’s mind registered it as odd – he had thought the Crows were all Latinos.

The three men stared down at the boy for a moment while he pushed himself up on all fours. Still looking down, he spat a glob of blood out onto the ground. He slid his tongue around the edge of his teeth, feeling one of them loose, hanging on to his gums by a thread of stringy flesh.

He grunted and stood up on his knees, his grey eyes staring back at his attackers. He tilted his head slightly and the three could hear a quiet ‘crunch’ from his mouth. He then spat the tooth at the man in the front leaving a red stain on his beige shirt.

“Fuck you,” Dick uttered through the blood now filling his mouth.

“Little fucker!” the man at the front grunted out and slammed the base of his shoe into the boy’s chest making him fall on his back. The bearded man let out a short laugh, while the more tanned man to the right cringed at the sight.

“This kid’s got some balls on him!” the bearded man said, crossing his arms. “Rafael, that’s enough.”

“Don’t you know what Martinez always says?” Rafael asked as he took another threatening step towards the boy.

“Always finish the job if you intend to kill someone,” an ever-so-slightly high-pitched voice said from behind them. Before the two men in the back could react, the one on the right was knocked out by a bat striking the side of his head.

As the first man was still falling, the other was grabbing for something behind his back, likely a gun. Wayne didn’t give him time to do so. While the man could jump back in time to avoid getting hit in the head, he was now up against the wall. The boy went for a backswing and the man instinctively went to block his face, but grunted as he was hit in the stomach instead.

The next strike hit him in the jaw and flattened him back against the wall clutching at his mouth. If Rafael had knocked out one of the younger kid’s teeth before, Wayne had just managed to do this man much worse.

Problem now was that he couldn’t take the apparent leader of the group by surprise anymore. Luckily, he appeared to not have a gun as he produced a switchblade from his pocket instead.

“I’m getting sick and tired of _children_ thinking they can fuck with the Red Crows and live.”

“You’re probably not the only one,” Wayne said as he started approaching the man. Nobody had ever taught him how to fight, certainly not with a weapon, but he realized one thing – he had an advantage in range here. Even if he was a head shorter than this bastard, he had the weapon advantage. If he were to be disarmed, he would be fucked.

So, he went for the obvious strategy.

Swing wildly and hope to hit.

Rafael grinned as the boy’s pathetic, inaccurate swings missed one after another. Finally, he raised his arm and blocked the bat entirely, barely even registering the negligible amount of pain he felt.

Wayne was panting. The man laughed, apparently assuming that he had already won.

As such, the following strike to his abdomen came as a surprise. Rather than going for another swing, Wayne had jabbed the end of the bat into the man’s stomach, throwing his entire weight into the attack. Rafael stumbled back, though the attack didn’t rob him of his balance.

A kick to the back of his legs did the trick, however.

His head slammed against the ground as he fell, making his vision blur. He looked to the side to see that he had fallen onto the other boy’s leg. He had apparently kicked him while he  himself was still on the ground.

“Y-you fucking cunt-“ was all he could stammer out before he took a baseball bat to the face and was out like a light.

 

The slightly older boy helped Dick inside, carrying his arm over his shoulders. He let the kid slump down onto the tattered couch a foot away from the door then shut the door behind them, locking it.

He then left the boy where he was for a minute or so, wandering into a small room to the left of the entrance. A moment later Dick could hear a muffled voice, the guy probably having called someone. Beaten to a pulp, Dick made no attempt to make out what he was saying.

Dick raised his hand up to his mouth and slid his index finger between his lips. He winced as he touched his bleeding gum. Dick shuddered, leaned forward in his seat and spat another glob of blood onto the floor.

“You’ll have to clean that shit up,” a voice said, an ice pack lowering in front of his face. Dick looked up to see the dark-skinned boy holding a can of coke in his hand, his expression giving away his excitement. “The name’s Wayne, by the way.”

 

“Hah! A fucking _kid_ beat you up!?” Carmine asked, letting out a shrill laugh right after, having to press her hand against the wall to hold herself up.

“There were two of them!” groaned Rafael, holding the sides of his head with both hands. He was sitting on the infirmary bed, heavily bandaged up, as were the other two.

“Psh. Hear that, Kate?” Carmine asked, elbowing the other woman in the room in the side. “The three of them were beaten up by _two_ kids. That makes it entirely reasonable.”

Kate, a young, athletic blonde, snickered and revealed a set of pearl-white teeth.

“Oh, clearly. It was very brave of them to go up against those kids in the first place. You gotta have some balls for that,” Kate responded, but couldn’t get it out without having to roll her amber eyes. “Seriously?”

“Actually, there was only one kid at first,” Carlos commented from the corner of the room. Right now he was trying to rearrange his short, dark hair to fall more comfortably, but winced whenever his hand brushed past the back of his head.

He had apparently been knocked out first in a fight, which may have saved him a whole lot of trouble; aside from a massive bump on his head, he had not suffered much.

“Rafael was beating him up alright,” he added.

“Right, right, that’s… Jesus Christ, could you people sink _any_ lower?” Carmine sighed, shaking her head.

“I hear that Backston’s been promising to set up an orphanage for a while now. Maybe if he goes through with it, you guys could set up a fight club there. Competition might be a bit rough, though. I hear those street kids are tough,” Kate said mockingly.

“Shut the fuck up already, you bitch!” Rafael jumped up on his feet, snarling. It was obvious that he had trouble standing. As he stepped up to the blonde, puffing out his chest and staring her down, she didn’t move a muscle.

“I suggest you watch your tongue, Raf. You coldn’t hold a candle up to me on your best day. Today, you couldn’t beat a toddler. Back. Off.”

Carmine watched as the man’s lip twitched, then his brow, before he finally just grunted something and stumbled back to his bed. She also spotted the little smirk playing on Kate’s lips. Man, that bitch was cool.

She turned to glance at the third man, whose bearded face had been wrapped up in bandages. He was currently holding an ice pack up to his chin.

“And what about you, hot shot? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“…Fluck ylou.”

“Ah. That’ll do it, yeah,” Carmine nodded.

“Jackson tried to stop Rafael,” Carlos mentioned, turning to face the others.

“Yeah, but he… Kind of didn’t, did he?” Kate asked, shrugging to herself. “As far as I’m concerned, all of you just have yourselves to blame for this nonsense. We’ll see what Martinez says about this.”

It was if the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees – at least it felt that way when you looked at the expressions the three men now held. Carmine chuckled, patting Carlos on the shoulder as she and Kate wandered out from the infirmary.

“Good luck!” Kate called out just before shutting the door, leaving the three in the cold silence of their own making. 


	3. Partnership

**Jonestown, Maine, 29/08/2006**

It was nearly 8 AM. Kate had been up for almost an hour now. She had been watching the sliver of light shining in between the curtains dance on the opposite wall, moved by the light breeze flowing in through the window which they had left open last night.

She had been waiting for her partner to wake up and wound up lost in her own thoughts, it seems, mesmerized by the peace and quiet she so rarely got to experience in this town. Kate glanced to her right at the figure currently heavily clad in blankets, breathing oh so quietly. It always amazed her what a heavy sleeper this girl was – and how she could possibly stand the heat.

Kate smiled to herself and wrapped her arms around the girl next to her, resting her head next to her bright copper hair.

“Carmine, we need to get up,” she whispered in her ear, pecking the girl’s caramel cheek.

In response, Kate received a smack to the face with the back of Carmine’s hand.

“Hrm,” she mumbled.

The corner of Kate’s eye briefly twitched. “If you get up in the next five seconds, I’ll pretend you _didn’t_ just hit me. _One..._ ”

“Meh…” another mumble as the woman pulled her blankets over her head.

“…Five.” Kate said and unceremoniously kicked Carmine in the side, shoving her out of bed. The girl tumbled, still wrapped up in her blankets, landing next to the bed with a thud.

“Good morning, Kate.” Came a voice from the floor.

“Morning. Get dressed. We need to be ready by nine.” Kate reminded the girl, climbing out of bed herself. She stretched out her arms and yawned, wandering over to the window.

“Fuck, do we really have to go? This is, like… Carlos work or something.” Carmine complained, having sat up on the ground with her chin resting on the side of the bed.

“It is, but he’s just one man. I don’t know what Martinez has been up to, but he’s dragged most of the other guys off to God-knows-where. We’ll probably be ‘doing Carlos work’ for a while now.” Kate answered. As she spoke, she collected her clothes and wandered into the bathroom. Moments later Carmine could hear running water.

“Yeah, sure, but…” Kate paused, scratching her cheek as she tried to come up with an excuse. “It’s not really work for a couple of ladies and all that.”

“Right, right, and a fine young lady you are, honey!” Kate called out from the other room. “Now get dressed already, will ya?”

“Bah, no need to hurry. Sebastian needs to pick me up anyway…” Carmine replied but got up on her feet anyway, sniffing. Just like Kate had done, she started wandering around the room in search of her clothes.

“Does he even know where you are?” Kate asked, stepping out into the doorway with a toothbrush in her hand.

“He’s a smart guy, he can make an educated guess,” Carmine said, twirling a bra on her finger. She was _pretty_ sure it was hers.

Kate shook her head, though a smile found its way onto her lips. She wandered back into the bathroom to finish cleaning herself up while Carmine got dressed.

“You’re not showering?” the blonde asked as she finally stepped out from the bathroom.

Carmine looked up from putting on a pair of socks. “I’ll take one _after_ I’m done sweating like a pig today, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Kate said and tossed a pair of keys onto Carmine’s lap. “Lock up when you’re leaving. Adios!” With that, the blonde pecked Carmine one last time on the cheek and set out the door. Carmine watched her leave with a satisfied look on her face, then got back to preparing.

After her clothes were all mostly located, she wandered over to her bag. This was no purse, mind you – it was a massive travel backpack. It was cumbersome to carry around, but she just kept it at Carmine’s place, much to her chagrin.

She zipped the bag open and produced her babies – her 19mm Browning Hi Power, her initials carved into the grip, and her .32 LeMat revolver. She was proud of that gun – the weapon had been owned by her father, and her father’s father, and his father before that.

 Every generation kept the weapon in working condition, each adding something to it. Now capable of firing modern .32 rounds as well as an underslung 20-gauge, the weapon was Carmine’s favorite response to anyone and anything that thought their armor would keep them safe.

The woman placed the weapons in holsters which she strapped to either sides of her waist, then tossed a light jacket on to conceal them. With her preparations complete, Carmine grabbed the keys from the bed and headed for the door.

She opened it, stepped out and turned to lock it, but found herself face-to-face with a young, cinnamon-haired man in a pale blue button-up shirt. Its top buttons, of course, were open.

“Hola,” Sebastian greeted her. He smelled the air for a moment then squinted at the woman. “Did you shower?”

“No, now let’s get going,” Carmine answered as she locked the door. She then started heading down the hall towards the stairs.

“Smells like a goddamn sushi bar,” Sebastian commented with a mischievous grin. “Had some fun in the sack last night?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“What sort of man would I be if I didn’t?”

“A decent one, so I see your point. What’re we dealing with today, exactly?” Carmine asked. As soon as they stepped outside, she produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, offering one to the man. He pulled a cigarette out and placed it between his teeth.

“Boxes, boxes, and more fucking boxes. I caught a glimpse of the delivery manifest Carlos had. Shit’s just weird.” The man responded. The two of them stopped in front of Sebastian’s car, a red 1980 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, so that Carmine could light his cigarette.

“Weird how, exactly?” Carmine queried as she got into the passenger seat. Sebastian climbed in soon after; the moment he started the engine, the sounds of Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” filled the car’s interior. After being side-eyed by Carmine, Sebastian turned the song down.

“Just… weird. Lots of fireproofing materials. Medical equipment, cages, chains, a bunch of chemicals, a surplus of syringes, and a massive fucking aquarium. Fuck knows where they’re taking that thing and how.”

“You could write off some of that as just being stuff for the infirmary, since that place has been a shithole for so long, but... Yeah, I’ll admit, that’s weird.”

“Carlos has no idea what’s it all about. I think Rafael knows something but he won’t say shit,” Sebastian continued as they drove onto the road, heading deeper into the industrial area. “But it almost feels like we’re making a lab somewhere.”

“A lab for what? Weapons research? I know Martinez and the other lot want to stick their dicks in every pie, but that might be a bit much.”

“If it’s weapons, we’re talking those… chemical weapons, or what do you call them. Biological ones. I’ll have to ask Jackson about those chemicals when I see him next time, he knows his shit, but whatever is going on just feels off.”

“Kate’s always said to just keep our heads low whenever Martinez goes nuts with his ideas,” Carmine commented with a small shrug.

“Hah! Aren’t you _her_ superior?” Sebastian asked.

Carmine chuckled. “Maybe in some ways, but not many.”

 

Cuz led Kate out the back door just as a 1997 Ford pickup truck backed up into the alleyway. The back of the truck was covered in a tarp, keeping the contents of the trunk a mystery.

“Is that it?” Kate queried as the truck came to a complete stop.

“’at it is, lass. Rest o’ today’s shipments got ‘ere earlier,” Cuz answered with a thick, southern drawl.

The driver side door opened, and out stepped a tall figure dressed in a pair of torn jeans, leather jacket and white t-shirt. The guy was covered in chains – chains on his neck, chains on his pants, chains on his arms. His dark hair fell over his eyes, hiding them from sight completely. He looked like a bloody scene kid – Kate had to stifle a laugh at the sight of him.

Silently, the guys walked to the back of the truck and pulled back the tarp. Underneath it were several unlabeled metal boxes of roughly the same size, at least 20 in total. Each one had a lock on it, but aside from that they were entirely featureless.

Cuz walked over as the kid produced a clipboard from his car. He handed it over and the large man read the thing top to bottom.

“Twen’y four o’ ‘em, huh? You count ‘em?” Cuz asked.

He got no verbal response, but Kate noticed something. A slightly twitch as he was spoken to, barely noticeable and focused in his hands. This kid was constantly ready to throw a punch, or worse.

“Edgy,” Kate commented out loud while Cuz signed the form he had been given. She hopped onto the back of truck and counted over the containers – 24, no more and no less. Whatever they were.

“Alright. This kid gonna help us-“ Kate was in the middle of asking when she heard the car door slam shut. A moment later, she heard the locks release a ‘click’, leaving her and Cuz on their own.

“Seems like a great guy,” she mumbled. 24 bloody boxes – and they seemed heavy. If Carmen and Seb didn’t get there soon, they’d be getting their asses beat. She’d guarantee it.

 

Martinez was watching the bearded man currently strapped into chair behind the window in front of him. A short while ago the man had been thrashing in his seat, slurring out profanities at the lot of them, but he appeared to have calmed down. Good. It was almost time to begin the experiment.

Martinez nodded to the middle-aged, grey-haired man standing next to the door. After nodding in response, he stepped into the room, carrying a small box in his hands. The bearded man looked towards the newcomer and the intercom in front of Martinez came to life.

“What the fluck do ylou wlant, Diego?” Jackson mumbled out.

“Simply to run a test, Jackson. Nothing more,” claimed the man holding the box. He opened it, revealing the contents to the restrained man.

“Tlest?” Jackson asked as his eyes fixated on the item inside the box and widened. A drop of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Yes, a test,” Diego said as he took a syringe out from the container. Inside it, a thick, black liquid swirled around, sticking to the syringe’s plastic walls. “This here is a substance which we have called ‘Shadow’. A powerful stimulant and steroid, which…”

“Blullshit!” Jackson snarled out. He then licked the gaps between his teeth, trying to grunt out his words as deeply as possible to avoid showing his lisp. “I know what it is.”

Diego froze up. He looked towards the one-way window right where Martinez was standing. The gangster was dumbfounded. Even the head Crows themselves didn’t know much about the stuff – except for The Boss, it seemed.  

“A-and… How do you know, exactly?” Diego asked before Martinez had a chance to fully grasp the situation.

“Blecause,” Jackson uttered, then spat on the table in front of him. “I was on the team that found those things in the first place.”


	4. Encounters

**Jonestown, Maine, 01/09/2006**

Wayne was peering out the window, watching the people hurry past Wildman’s store on their way home. It was 7PM, and they were likely heading home, hoping to get there before night fell. It wasn’t a good idea to stay out late – not with the Red Crows around.

It was about time for him to call it a day as well, but he had decided to wait for Wildman to get back; the man had said he was going out for drinks and in Wayne’s experience, that meant the guy wouldn’t have the dexterity to lock up the shop.

What caught Wayne’s eye was a car, a 2006 Ford Excursion which had just parked in front of a shady hardware store on the other side of the road. As far as Wayne was aware that shop was owned by The Crows – but he had never seen that car before, nor did it have the Red Crows’ symbol on its side.

A man clambered out from the vehicle – on the shorter side, heavy-set, balding head and thick beard. He seemed to be speaking with someone inside the car for a moment, then headed into the store. Soon after, an even shorter figure got out of the passenger side – a kid heading towards one of the shadiest gun stores in America’s most crime-riddled town’s worst district.

Wayne couldn’t help but crack a smile.

 

Did my dad _really_ expect me to wait in the car for god-knows how long in that heat? He honestly should’ve known better. I had always been a curious kid, but at 13 I was as nosey as I was snarky and rebellious. Looking back on it, it’s a miracle I survived puberty.

I climbed out of my dad’s car, pinching my nose shut as the potent mix of the industrial district’s smells hit me – the sharp stench of piss and shit, the dull odor of smoke, and the metallic smell of blood. It would be quite some time before I was used to it, that much was obvious.

I briefly examined my surroundings – none of the buildings really stood out to me other than the trinket shop my dad had gone into and the gun store on the opposite side of the road. I sure as hell wasn’t going to head in after my father. After I locked the door before shutting it, my choice was obvious.

An almost comically small bell announced my intrusion as I stepped into the store. The shelves inside were lined with gear, body armor and an assortment of weapon attachments. Most of the guns were mounted upon the far wall behind the counter, a door next to them likely leading to storage where one would find ammo and the like.

There weren’t any customers around but the place wasn’t empty. A black man, who I presumed could be in his twenties, was standing behind the counter with his arms crossed on his chest. The guy was muscular, his face bore slight stubble and his black, unruly hair was parted in the front to free up his brown eyes. Those eyes were something else – I could tell right away that this guy had seen some shit in his life, yet his gaze didn’t seem harsh in the slightest.

“Yo. You guys sell guns here?” I gave the man a short wave.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but this is actually a library. We’re just _very_ strict about late fees.” The man responded with a snicker. His voice wasn’t as deep as I had expected it to be – maybe just slightly deeper than mine at that.

“Ah, man. I was hoping to get my arsenal going, too.” I said, resting my elbow on the counter.

“Is that so? Well, I could get you something if you can cough up the cash.”

“Do you have assault rifles?” I questioned.

“Sure, what were you looking for?”

“AR-15s. The point… Point two-two-three Remington ones. The ones they sent to ‘Nam,” I answered, showcasing the broad base of knowledge I had acquired from looking at a Wikipedia article once in my life.

There was a pause, the shop falling into dead silence. “…’Nam, you say?”

My grin fell slightly as I realized something. My legs started to shake as I watched the man’s expression. Had this guy been in Vietnam? Wait, when was the Vietnam war again? Had it been ten years ago, or twenty...?

My worries turned to confusion as the man started laughing heartily, wiping a tear from his eye. “Holy shit, man, you should’ve seen your expression there.  Jesus, do I really look that old?”

I huffed out a frightened breath, lowering my head and resting myself against the counter. Man, I was a fuck-up.

A hand much larger than mine extended in front of my face. I looked up and saw who I now realized was a teenager not that much older than I was.

“Wayne. What’s your name, kid?”

I took a hold of his hand, hoping my hand wouldn’t be crushed. “Hank. I’m Hank.”

 

“Fucks’ sake, why do are _we_ the ones that have to do this?” Kate asked, pouting.

“I’m starting to notice you say that about every job we get, Kate,” Carmine commented with a chuckle. The two of them had just gotten out of Kate’s car and were heading towards the factory currently functioning as The Crows’ main hideout and Martinez’ personal storage.

“Yeah, because every job we’ve had lately has sucked major dick. Delivery service, guard duty and now training the fuckin’ grunts. When’s the last time we did a heist or something? A shoot-out? Anything!”

“Well, I guess we don’t really have a need for it anymore. Martinez and The Boss have this town in the palm of their hands. I hear Federico’s entire division moved out to Belize to get in touch with the higher-ups – there isn’t much room to expand in Jonestown anymore.”

“Divisions, higher-ups, all this training. Fucking hell, this gang is starting to feel more like the military!” Carmine complained as she opened the front door.

Kate smiled to herself as she stepped into the factory’s musky air after her. “It really does.”

A group had already gathered there, most of them new recruits to the Red Crows. Carmine recognized some as working under Sideburns and a few others as thugs she had seen hanging around Jonestown. It seemed that Martinez was on some sort of recruitment drive lately, yet she couldn’t figure out why.

No matter. That wasn’t for her to worry about.

“Alright, line up, dirt bags, I want to get a good look at ya!” Carmine commanded. The lot of them did just that, though a few smug-looking outliers purposefully hesitated. They weren’t Sideburns’ guys. Say what you will about them, but they had been taught to respect authority.

“Hey, fuckers, do you got cotton in your ears or sticks up your asses? Get in fuckin’ line,” Carmine ordered as Kate took her spot next to her, a knowing smirk on her lips.

“Why are we listening to a woman, exactly?” One of the men, a fit, oddly tall Latino man asked. He seemed to be the head of his pack, the rest of the group standing a step behind his wide shoulders.

“Oh, lord. I can’t be the only one sick of this trope already. It was empowering the first couple of training sessions, but after the third time it just gets tiring,” Kate uttered, placing a hand on her hip.

“Tsk.  What’s your name, bud?” Carmine asked as she stepped closer to the man.

“Diego, chica. What, you want to know what you’ll be screaming tonight?” He asked, leaning closer to the woman’s face. The response earned laughter and hollering from the others – they didn’t seem to be taking Carmine seriously.

“Oof. That was a mistake,” Kate said loud enough to be heard.

“Ah, Diego. Good to know. Check this out, Diego,” the woman said before slamming her palm into the large man’s throat. She felt a droplet of his spit hit her cheek as he recoiled, gargling for air through the pain, but she was hardly done.

While the man was still in pain, she grabbed onto his arm and stepped past him with one foot. She slammed her leg into the back of his, sending him onto the ground. Moments later, the two were on the floor, the helpless man in an elbow lock. The rest of the thugs could only stare in awe.

“Told you,” Kate said with a shrug.

“Right then. I assume some of you will argue that I took him by surprise. To that I say – fair enough, but your opponent ain’t gonna wait for you to be ready,” Carmine explained before letting Diego’s arm fall to the ground.

She got off him, but the man remained grounded for a while longer. “But we’re here for practice. So, does anyone here think they’re a decent fighter? Think ya can take me on?”

There were ten solid seconds of silence, before some bickering could be heard from a pair of Martinez’ men. The larger one then shoved the other forward, earning a glare from the guy.

“Since when am _I_ the better fighter?” the dark-haired young man asked.

“Since now, Marco, sho’ ‘em-” the larger man tried to encourage him.

“Marco!” Kate called out, pointing a finger at the man. The group turned to look at her as she slowly lowered her finger. “Haah, yeah. Give her hell, Marco.”

Carmine raised an eyebrow at her outburst, but turned to face her new opponent all the same. She raised her fists, giving him a slight nod. “Ready when you are, kid.”

Marco took a moment to compose himself before taking a stance himself. Though just moments ago he had seemed anxious, his eyes now showed certain determination. Carmine could appreciate that.

The male opened the fight, trying to go for a simple jab. Certainly not enough to get her – the woman simply weaves to the side and retaliates with a strike to his side. Though he reels back, he’s not giving in to any pain yet. He goes for another jab with his other arm, quickly following it up with another, then another.

Carmine has little issues dodging the strikes, though she does note his speed. If these training sessions were to become a regular occurrence he could become quite good. She lets him exert himself for a while longer before ducking under one of his swings and delivering a kick to his shin. As his leg is sent backwards, the man instinctively leans forward to keep balance, granting the female the perfect opportunity. A single strike to his chin sends Marco down on the ground.

Carmine huffs out a breath. The dodging had made her sweat up a little. She grinned. “Not bad for a beginner, Marco. Expect us to do some more sparring at some point.”

“F-fucking hell, I think you nearly took my jaw off there,” he mumbled out, rubbing his chin; a bruise was already forming where she had struck him.

“Yeah, well, you’ll need to suck it up, buttercup. We’re not done practicing today. For now, I want all of you to pair up – looks like there’s 17 of ya here. Kate, would you mind-”

“Pardon me, but may I spar with her?” a voice asked from behind her. She spun around to be face-to-face with the newcomer, a blonde man with an intense gaze and sharp, angled facial features, as if harshly chiseled from olive-colored marble.

“I’m afraid I was late. May a harsher challenge be appropriate punishment?”


	5. Excitement

**Jonestown, Maine, 01/09/2006**

The suburbs in Jonestown existed in stark contrast to the industrial district. The Red Crows had contained the world of crime as if it were trapped inside a bubble – one which could always burst, but so long as it didn’t the citizens of Jonestown could enjoy some peace.

Some others, however, hated that peace and wished nothing more than to disturb it.

Beatrice Elizabeth Mahon, age 24, had moved to Jonestown in hopes of finding excitement, a bustling new town full of crime and adventure. Yet all she discovered was a simple, dull shithole crawling with petty thugs and hoodlums. The world they lived in was as bleak as ever.

And yet she had found a ray of light in it all.

As it were, she was spending her evening working in her garden. Her dahlias were in full bloom, coloring her front yard in tones of red and pink. The air was full of their sweet scent and any passers-by would see a smile on the young woman’s face as she watered her plants, crouching carefully as to not dirty her skirt.

A ray of crimson light to lead her way through the dull grayness of existence.

She watched as a car parked in front of her house, a pick-up truck with a large tarp covering the back. She didn’t question what was inside, since she already knew quite well. She greeted the young man who stepped out, though he didn’t return the greeting. It was part of their weekly ritual. Instead, she simply accepted the small case which he had brought her, ruffled the boy’s hair and headed inside, making sure to move her hips as much as possible as she did. It never seemed like the boy was interested in her, but you never know…

A ray of crimson light, like the reflection on a puddle of fresh blood.

She wandered through her house aimlessly for a while longer. The anticipation was largely the best part, after all. She walked through her dining room, brushing her hand along the soft cloth covering the table. She still had to make dinner but that could wait tonight. Her pearl-white kitchen which she kept spotless had earned an almost blindingly orange tint in the evening sun. She stopped in front of her window, looking out into the backyard as the sun shined on her face.

A ray of crimson light, the line between life and death.

She felt a wave of heat wash over her before hurrying her step through her living room. Her lips parted on their own as she let out an eager gasp, now almost running towards her basement door. She slapped her hand on the light switch, not even waiting for the meager bulb to light her path. Jumping down two or three steps at a time, she felt as excited as she ever felt when this time came.

A ray of crimson light, granted to her by the Lord which she had never known existed.

Finally, she stopped on the bottom step, inhaling the aroma which she found so much sweeter than any flower in her garden. The scent of sanguine fluid mixed with fear, guilt and despair. The smell of a person awaiting death.

A ray of crimson light with which she may cleanse the nothingness of this world.

 

Kate stared at the man for a moment longer, trying to place him in her memory. She knew she had seen him around before – he was a Red Crow, and if she wasn’t mistaken, one of The Boss’s own. And yet every time she met him, she felt like she had done so before – not just after joining The Crows. She felt like she had met him long before that.

“And who are you, exactly?” Carmine asked, standing between her and the newcomer.

“Esteban Campana, at your service,” the man responded as he gave the women an earnest bow. “I came here to observe the training under The Boss’s orders, but I am shamefully late. My deepest apologies.”

Carmine tilted her head, weirded out by the man’s overly polite demeanor. “Well, uh, you can apologize to the floor, then. If you want to fight Kate, go for it. It’s your funeral.”

She then gave Kate a thumbs up, Kate returning it as she stepped up next to her partner. Esteban Campana… Yet again, the name seemed familiar but not quite familiar enough. No matter, she thought – maybe a fight would jog her memory.

Kate took a stance with her left arm bent forward and her right arm near her center of mass. “If that’s the case, I’ll let you go first.”

“Hey, don’t think this means the rest of you fuckers get to slack off! Pair up and try to take each other down, now!” Carmine ordered the rest of the group, who had been idly watching the exchange up until new. Upon hearing her commanding tone, they hurried to fight sparring partners and get to practicing, even if most of them didn’t know the first thing about fighting.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite my style,” Esteban responded, his arms at his sides, palms wide open. “If you would attack me first, I’d gladly accept the outcome.”

Kate felt a chill run down her spine. Something about his stance, the way he acted and the way he spoke – he didn’t seem like the usual thugs the Red Crows attracted, nor did he appear to be ex-military. His words were kind and composed yet his eyes betrayed his conviction. He was no mere grunt. He was…

Nothing for Kate to worry about. She told this to herself as she gave the man a nonchalant smirk, bending her knees. “Right, then. Your funeral.”

Kate charged her opponent, aiming to grab a hold of his arm. He was no different than any other fighter – if she could put him in an armlock and get him on the ground, that would be the end of the fight. His lack of a stance was a foolish bluff at best and a lack of skill at worst.

As she reached out for him, however, she found that she was grabbing at nothing. The man had twisted his torso so that his arm was out of her way. Kate cursed herself internally as she was now open to an attack. Even so, it never came.

She spun herself around, the man still facing her, his pale-blue eyes drilling into her. It was as if he was appraising her, judging each moment she made, every breath she took. To her it was as troubling as it was infuriating.

Kate rushes at the man again, going for a similar grab as the first time. However, when the man side-stepped, she followed her attack up with a kick to the man’s side. He wasn’t able to dodge, but his loose stance allowed him to block her strike with his forearm. He didn’t even flinch.

As Esteban moved back, he continued to stare at her, letting Kate notice something rather strange. His eyes refused to move at all, as if they were trained on her center of mass the entire time. Either that, or he was looking at her boobs. She didn’t appreciate it either way.

Fighting this man was aggravating. He fought not like a man but like a snake, slithering away from every strike with ease. The spectacle was likely amusing to any observer, Kate’s vicious, precise attacks all falling short against a man with no stance. With the corner of her eye she saw Carmine watching the fight, her fists on her hips. Finally, she called out:

“Alright, we see you can dodge, but how about you try and _hit_ her?”

His eyes flicked to the side just momentarily. “As you wish,” he uttered just as Kate went for another attack.

Esteban narrowly avoided a direct strike to his chin and wrapped his arm around Kate’s. His other arm was pulled back, hand still open. Even so, a strike was clearly coming her way. And yet, he seemed to hesitate – just briefly, but it was enough for Kate to act. The woman flexed her arm, pulling her opponent towards her, all the while throwing her own punch. Esteban’s open hand made it halfway before her fist met with his nose, causing him to release her and stumble back.

Kate followed the attack up with a hook to his right cheek, then to his left, then a kick to his stomach. Finally, she slammed both her fists on his back, sending the man down on the ground.

A victorious smile spread across Kate’s face before the fatigue hit her. She stumbled back, right into Carmine’s arms. “Fuck me…”

“Later, hon’. Man, for a moment there it looked like he’d have you beat, y’know. I knew you’d kick his ass eventually, though.” She flirted.

Kate blinked, placing a hand on her glistening forehead. “N-no… He…”

She paused, watching the man get up and wipe the blood from his nose. She might have broken it, but that didn’t seem to faze him. He looked towards her one last time before wandering towards a group of thugs who had also been beaten by their sparring partners, now sitting around and licking their wounds.

“…He was pulling his punches.”


	6. Test Chamber

Jackson had lost track of time.

He didn’t know for how long he had been sitting in that cell – he had been brought food eleven times since the 29th, the day he had been imprisoned by his own superiors - to their credit, they hadn’t let their prisoner go hungry. He had been interrogated five times in total – Jackson presumed he had been in that cell for somewhere between four and six days.

Jackson had occupied his time in two ways. The first was working out. He had always been in decent shape, but over the course of his stay in this empty, ill-lit chamber he had regained a muscle tone he hadn’t possessed in years - granted, that didn't quite say much. He had a long ways to go to get back into the shape he was in back in the military.

That was the other option he had – thinking about the past. Remembering what he had long since made himself forget. Memories which the Crows had been trying to force out of him. The things he knew were the only reason he was still alive – the only reason he hadn’t been injected with… That substance. Even if he tried, he couldn’t recall what designation it had been given – it was just a garble of numbers and letters either way. Whatever the case, its name was of little relevance. What it did to the human body was the problem.

As he tried to dig through his memory for anything useful, anything at all, he heard the bolt on his door slide open with a ‘clang’. The door creaked open and in peered the lead man himself.

“Jackson! How are you holding up, friend?” Martinez asked as he waltzed inside. Jackson didn’t resist the man as he wrapped his arm around his shoulders and started leading him outside right away.

Jackson swallowed the saliva gathering in his mouth before speaking, enunciating each word with care. “I’m as fine as a prisoner can be.”

“Prisoner? No, I’d call you… A guest of honor, more than anything,” Martinez responded with a crooked grin, nodding to the man guarding the cell Martinez was kept in. The man nodded in response and stepped into the cell – for what reason, Jackson could only wonder.

“You have a twl- twisted sense of fuckin’ humor,” Jackson forced through gritted teeth. The hallway they were walking through was lined on either side with cells just like his own, a guard posted at every other door or so.

“Don’t I know it. But you have little to worry about, Jackson. Jackson, Jackson – what was your first name again?” Martinez questioned as they made their way towards a stairwell at the end of the hall.

“Cole,” Jackson said. “Nobody calls me fuckin’ Cole.”

“Yeah, Jackson suits you better. But you got nothing to worry about because you, my friend, are currently much too valuable to us – to me, even. But my dogs back there have been telling me that you haven’t been too talkative as of late. Is that true?”

Rather than responding to the question, the two of them now heading down the stairs, Jackson squinted at Martinez. “What’s with the weird personality thing you’re doing, Inocencio? I’ve seen you shoot a fucking dog for sleeping too loud. Or are you just tl- tryin’ to come out as a homo?”

Martinez sighed. “I’m just trying to do the good cop-bad cop thing.”

“And where’s the bad cop part?” Jackson asked moments before the arm around his shoulders jerked him forward, sending him face-first down the last flight of stairs.

He barely managed to place his hands in front of himself to avoid yet another jaw injury, crashing down on the concrete at the bottom. Jackson slowly got up on all fours, wincing as his hands were bruised red and bleeding.

Martinez forced the man back onto the ground with his boot, laughing like a madman. “Why, you should have seen your face when you fell, Jackson! It was priceless – though there’s little time for playing around now, ah? We have some work to do, and you can’t just be laying around all day. So, get the fuck up already!”

Only with his tirade over did Martinez remove his foot from Jackson’s body. The bearded man shuddered before forcing himself up again. Something was wrong with Martinez – more so than the norm. He had always been cruel and heartless, but that wasn’t all at play here. Something was off.

Jackson stood up and surveyed his surroundings. The bottom of the stairwell was pretty much empty save for a single metal door, another gang member leaned against the wall next to it. The man was Hispanic, and Jackson didn’t recognize him. He was certainly not one of Martinez’s regulars.

Martinez opened the door and, coerced by the guard, Jackson followed the man inside.

Jackson would have imagined a lot of things being down here – and a laboratory had not been one of them. At least, that’s what it seemed to be on first glance.

The walls of the room were not just concrete, as they appeared to be covered entirely in reinforced steel plates. Mounted on them were series of shelves and counters, a variety of chemical equipment set atop of them. The middle of the room was much the same, though one side appeared to have been devoted to a sort of operating room, with the table brightly illuminated from all directions.

There were 8 other people currently in the room, walking about and checking on the equipment. And everywhere Jackson looked they appeared to be working with that cursed substance. One of them appeared to be preparing to inject a small animal with it – a guinea pig would be Jackson’s guess. Another was mixing it with various other chemicals. Another was ‘dosing’ it into syringes and packing them away.

But the one experiment to catch Jackson’s eye was a woman currently heating a vial of it with a Bunsen burner. As the vial heated up, the viscous liquid inside seemed to try and crawl away from the flame, but found the vial sealed. It proceeded to slide back down the vial, seemingly actively looking for a way out.

It continued this movement for a solid ten seconds before appearing to stop all movement. A moment later, it burst out, covering the entire interior of the vial. The woman turned the fire off and unsealed the vial. The plug had been completely charred up on the inside.

Martinez tapped Jackson on the shoulder. “This ain’t the end of the tour yet, Jackson. You’ll be seeing a whole lot more than that today.”

Feeling like he knew all too well what Martinez meant by that, Jackson dragged his feet as he followed his boss towards another metal door in the back of the lab. Martinez opened it and shoved Jackson through first.

They were now in the observation area next to an interrogation room. A room Jackson recognized – three people lined up inside with three more armed men behind them. Sitting in the chair next to the intercom was Diego, a packet of wafers next to him. “Ah, you’re here! Was just wondering how long we’d have to wait.”

Slowly Jackson’s head turned back to face Martinez. “N-no, you can’t… Three…”

“Oh, quit your whining, Jackson, we’re only doing one today. The fun part is this: You get to pick which one!” Martinez said with glee, pushing Jackson closer to the observation window.

“What? Why?” Jackson asked, terrified.

“Because I fucking feel like it, Jackson, now pick.” Martinez groaned out.

Jackson looked towards the group inside again. The first of the three he recognized – he had seen that blonde man before, though he wasn’t quite sure who he worked under. Not Martinez, and he didn’t think he was one of Sideburns’ guys either. Still, it was hard to forget him – the guy had the features of some Roman god, and not one of the fat ones.

The second he didn’t know at all. The brown-eyed man was still wearing a shirt and tie, his hair a disheveled mess – one of his pants sleeves had been ripped apart and his face bore the marks of a heavy beating. Jackson couldn’t tell where they had gotten him from, but he could take a guess at _how_ they got him.

And the third was a woman. Jackson didn’t know her personally – but he knew her kind. She could have been in her twenties, thirties or forties – it was hard to tell. Her outfit, to say the least, was lacking, and at some point she may have been cute, but her face seemed dull and expressionless, her bleary gray eyes staring blankly at the window in front of her.

On her side it would have been a mirror – maybe she was staring at herself, realizing that today could be the day she dies, wondering what went wrong. At some point, Jackson thought, the woman might have been rather fetching. But one thing or another – likely drugs and prostituting herself to the scum of Jonestown - had led to her looking like a washed-up zombie.

Jackson’s gaze darted from one person to another. The man in the middle shifted a little, receiving a shove from the man behind him and an order to not move. Jackson swore he could see the blonde next to him snicker, while the woman remained ever motionless.

Jackson heard a click behind him, something hard and metallic pressed up against the back of his head. Martinez spoke up with a laugh in his voice: “Come on now, Jackson, hurry up. I don’t like getting blood on this side of the window.”

The man swallowed the saliva in his throat before answering.  “Middle.”

“Ha! As expected. What did I tell you, Diego?” Martinez said, holstering his gun and extending his hand to accept a wafer from the middle-aged man next to them.

Diego huffed. “Damn. I’d have bet you’d go for the woman – look at her, she looks like she _wants_ to die!”

“Now, now, Jackson here is a gentleman – he would never hurt a lady. Or one of his own, clearly. How honorable,” Martinez commented as he leaned in next to Jackson’s ear. “It’s a _damn_ shame that it’s the one in the middle who’s getting off easy.”

Diego turned on the intercom, ordering the other two to be removed from the room. Jackson watched as they were escorted, the worried expression on the beaten-up man’s face turning to pure terror as he was strapped into a chair.

As the guards escorted the woman and the other gang member out through the door and through the lab again, Jackson felt their gaze dig into him. The man seemed rather cheerful for someone doomed to suffer at the hands of the Crows, while the woman… Jackson wasn’t sure if she had any idea what was happening anymore.

Diego wiped his hands off on his pants and produced a small metal box from under the desk before heading into the interrogation room, Martinez sitting down in the chair and crossing his legs upon the desk in front of him.

Jackson watched as Diego entered the room and opened the case in front of the man strapped into the chair.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what we’ll do to you. But you don’t need to worry about that much, trust me – we’re just running a little test here. Once we’re done, you’ll be free to go,” Diego reassured the man as he took the syringe out of the box and placed it onto the table in front of him. The thing was filled to the brim with the substance.

“This here is a stimulant we call ‘Shadow’. Quite the name, right? Well, we’ll need you to take that bad boy and inject all of it into your arm. I’m sure you have experience in that. My friend here will unstrap you, the two of us will leave the room and then you’re free to go wild.”

The man looked rather confused but didn’t question it. Why would he? After all, the alternative was likely death anyway. Of course, Jackson knew death was undoubtedly the preferred alternative to what was about to happen to his body.

Diego and the guard proceeded to do just that, leaving the man alone and locking the metal door shut behind themselves. The man in the room slowly picked up the syringe. Jackson closed his eyes, but a gun pointed at his temple made him open them again.

“I want you to see it all, buddy. That’s what you’re here for.”

The man stabbed the needle into his arm and pressed it down, the entirety of the substance pumping into his veins. Such a large amount of something as thick as that liquid should not have been able to enter one’s body without problem, yet it clearly did. For several long moments, nothing happened.

The syringe fell from the man’s hands as he was thrown into a coughing fit, trying to cover his mouth as a burst of blackened mucus spewed forth from it and onto the table. Diego and Martinez leaned in closer towards the window as he stood up, clutching at the desk for stability.

The man staggered towards the door, ooze running down from his mouth and onto his shirt, but that was hardly the worst of it. The first thing that changed were the bruises on his face: they turned pure black, growing larger by the second. The man grasped towards his face as it swelled up, only to reel back from his own hand as it had begun to rapidly go through much of the same but much, much worse.

Back in Texas Jackson had known a man who had lost three of his fingers to a recluse spider bite – he had described what happened as his ‘hand dying before his very eyes’, turning blackened as his flesh just melted away. Jackson had always thought of it as some sort of exaggeration, but he could not as easily call bullshit on what was happening before him now.

The man’s arm began to turn blackened, and appeared to physically crack. He screamed and fell backwards and as he did, a chunk of it flesh fell onto his leg. Still screaming, he reached for the door, trying to crawl to perceived safety but was struck by a series of convulsions leaving him flat on his back. His entire body was soon covered in lesions and dead flesh, only his eyes still intact – and, worst of all, still moving.

Then, however, something worse happened. Up until that day even Jackson didn’t know about this – he had only read reports and seen what the substance did to people to roughly this point. Bile was already building up in Jackson’s throat, but when the man’s chest began to twist, his ribs seemingly beginning to extend from his body and tear through his shirt, he proceeded to vomit onto the desk in front of him, stumbling back.

“Oh, geez. I’m not cleaning that one up,” Martinez commented as he crunched into another wafer. “Oh, but don’t look away now, this is the best part!”

Jackson looked with watery eyes at the scene going on inside the room. What had initially appeared to be his ribs turned out to be much more – made of the same black substance combined with the man’s flesh and bone it protruded from his chest, thrashing from side to side. As it grew, it began to take shape and move more purposefully, tearing through more and more flesh as if whatever was inside was clawing its way out from the corpse.

The body beneath the emerging creature continued to convulse, the figure swaying from side to side. Then, through the intercom a horrendous screech could be heard. As if on cue, a massive, hanging jaw formed on the creature’s ‘head’, if it could even be called that - it resembled more a pus-covered scab. Two bulging brown eyes popped out from the inside of the creature’s skull, if it even had one, completing its ghastly visage as they began to swivel in their sockets independently of each other.

Jackson was frozen in place. He watches as a single long, oozing leg reached out from the man’s corpse, dragging the rest of the body out with it. The thing’s elongated arms ended in massive claws befitting a long-forgotten beast, hanging limply by its sides. For a moment, it stood where it was, completely still. It then screeched again, launching itself at the observation window and smashing into it with all of it appendages.

Jackson screamed and fell back onto the ground, though Martinez and Diego seemed unfazed – the guard, however, was clearly uncomfortable.

Jackson stared at the creature frantically beating against the bulletproof glass, when he was brought back into reality by another ‘crunch’ coming from yet another fucking wafer between Martinez’s teeth.

“Hm. Another one that’s immediately aggressive. Diego, are you going to log this or will you need a minute to jerk off in the corner, first?” Martinez asked.

“I’ll log it, but there’s not really any hurry. I finally had fireproof cameras installed inside, along with the other upgrade.”

Martinez snickered. “Light it up, then.”

Diego shuffled past Jackson, still laying on the ground, and over to the intercom. A small red switch laid next to it: Diego reached out for it, staring directly into the creature’s massive eyes for a good couple of seconds.

He then flipped the switch, and a sea of flames engulfed the room’s interior, setting the creature ablaze. It continued to screech and wail, slamming itself against the window more aggressively than before and leaving several large scratch marks on its mirrored surface. Martinez watched all of this while rubbing his chin – he didn’t seem worried about it escaping at all.

Jackson could feel the heat emanating from the door to the interrogation room. He knew that the creature inside was dying – but he didn’t know why. He didn’t know how it came to be to begin with – or why Martinez and Diego would do all of this. But as the screeching finally died down, both men turned towards him, the fires behind them casting a flickering shadow on their faces.

“Well, Jackson here handled himself better than many before him, wouldn’t you say, Martinez?” Diego asked.

“Better than some, at least. But the important lesson here, Jackson,” Martinez answered as he got up from the chair and crouched down next to the bearded man. “Is that you _will_ cooperate with us. You _will_ help us. Otherwise, you _will_ be on the other end of this here research. And none of us want that, now, do we?”

Jackson nodded. He would need to cooperate. He would need to remain useful.

Because only then could he ever leave this hellhole.


End file.
